


Still

by ensorcels



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-08-28 00:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16713379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcels/pseuds/ensorcels
Summary: "Hear this song and remember..."A Russian orphan leaves her homeland in search of a thread of a memory and finds much more than she bargained for.Combination of both musicals and the 1997 movie Anastasia by Don Bluth.





	1. a shattered dream

**Author's Note:**

> For narrative purposes, the Russian Revolution is set some fifty-odd years before it actually happened. Anya's going to grow close to Dmitri throughout, but given his deception, trust needs to be rebuilt to renew their friendship.

"I apologize, but the Dowager simply will _not_ \--"

"Now see here, she  _must_ listen to me! That girl is--"

"I must  _nothing_! The money is all you care for. Go away."

 

The cacophony of voices could be heard clearly through the door leading to the box occupied by the dowager empress and her cousin. Patrons of the opera house milling about stopped, listened and walked off whispering amongst themselves. All the while, Anya balled her hands into tight little fists at each side of herself to keep from either bursting into tears or into a fit of rage. Perhaps both. All that talk of wanting to ease the suffering of an old woman, and here they were only looking to fleece her of money meant to be a reward. It galled her. Vladimir and Dmitri had pretended to want what was best for her, and for the poor Dowager who had lost  _everyone_ she had ever loved within a fortnight.

They had not care a whit for either of them. Three options rested before her: to barge in and further distress a woman who had already been caused more than enough heartache by the greed of men, to confront Dmitri and listen to whatever explanation he could possibly think to have.  _Or_ she could choose neither. Anya could not say if the dowager was or was not part of the family she could not recall. But tormenting her any more was mean-spirited in a way she could never hope to be. And confronting Dmitri exhausted her simply to contemplate it. He was a pathological liar, a  _con-man_. 

She could never trust a word uttered from his lips again. Tears glittered in her eyes as she drew a hand to her mouth and fled, her necklace  _burning_ as she went.

* * *

Such a scene could not hope to escape the notice of the opera ghost. Initially, he had attended the performance to watch Christine dance. She had been ill tonight, though, and not ended up joining members of the visiting Russian Ballet onstage. A pity. But whatever melancholy he might feel to not catch a glimpse of a dancer had turned to curiosity and morbid interest when his hiding place behind the wall had afforded him a front row seat, as it were to a drama the like of which the emperor himself would have paid handsomely to witness. The elderly woman was of Royal blood from what he could see; regal bearing, imperious demeanour and a crown that glimmered with hundreds of diamonds beneath the light of the gas lamps.

"No, I won't go away. I worked in the winter palace, Your Majesty--here, look. D'you remember this?"

Erik noted a young man in his early twenties holding forth a spherical object fashioned of gold and jade. His eyes narrowed speculatively as the apparent Dowager's demeanour changed to shock. The young man stood stubbornly, left hand outstretched with the object loose in his grasp until she took it. Her hands shook and held whatever it was as if it were the most precious treasure in all the world. Where the man's expression was one of determination, hers was nebulous, unreadable. 

"You  _stole_ this and think to return it now will make me more likely to believe you?" Pointedly, she did not answer his question. But her jaw set in a firm line, blue eyes blazing now with a fire that even gave the Phantom pause in his hidey-hole. Erik held his breath and watched as the Dowager rung a bell and the young man was summarily muscled out of the antechamber by Jean-Claude, taller, burlier than Buquet and always utterly silent--into the hall. For a time, Erik remained frozen in place behind the wall, watching the buxom blonde lady-in-waiting move to put a comforting arm about her charge's stiffened shoulders. 

"Come,  _vashe Velichestvo_. Ilya will take us home, and I'll have a word with Vlad in the morning." She did not sound at all aghast, something which Erik found to be of immense interest. This was not the typical sordid affair members of the aristocracy landed themselves into. Indeed: some might say that his own extortion of a monthly stipend for his  _services_ as the hidden artistic director of this opera house was practically tame by comparison. A pittance in the face of a ten million ruble reward. He watched while the pair of women left the room and gave a short sigh of relief. Turning, he crept back through the passage to the tunnel through which he made his way to the chapel. Christine was ill, but all the same, he would wait a little just in case she defied Antoinette Giry's orders and came anyway.

* * *

As it turned out: she had not. Wise girl, though he felt a great swell of disappointment overtake him. He could hardly go to her, sing her to sleep and lay a cool cloth over her brow when she was being attended by the ballet mistress. The other dancer rats could sleep like the dead, but not Antoinette. Part of him was convinced that the woman slept with one eye open just to ensure that none of her girls got into trouble. The chapel was empty, a hollow, grey space without the light and colour of Christine's voice and presence with which to fill it. Tonight, it was simply an altar with but one candle lit, the tiny amber light flickering eerily upon the otherwise drab walls. 

It was dim enough in here that he could not see the figure of a girl huddled in a far corner until he coughed, causing her head to snap up. Curse the dry, stale air in here! Erik grew very still, fingers twitching under his sleeve at the frayed ends of the punjab lasso. The glimmer of the candle cast shadows across her features, true, but from any distance he would have been immediately able to know that she was not his Christine. A flash of keen, red-rimmed blue eyes in his direction was further confirmation: she had not expected anyone to disturb her.

"You know." her voice only wavered a little, but carried a soft lilt, even as she continued dryly: "If I had wanted an audience, I would have performed onstage and  _you_ would have bought a ticket."

Her wit was startling enough to drive away the itch to grasp the lasso between his fingers. Erik's green eyes narrowed, his initial amusement swiftly replaced by a wary sort of annoyance and dismay. For one thing, he wasn't used to being found out unless he chose to be seen or heard. And another, well. It was disconcerting that the knowledge of someone eavesdropping on what should be a private moment didn't disconcert  _her_. Silence stretched on, seeming to echo off the white-washed, colourless stone of the walls. The moon had evidently been covered by clouds and just newly emerged, for weak, silverspun rays of its light filtered through the stained glass of the window and cast the entire room in a riot of pale hues. 

The girl huffed out a snort, and shook her head. "I guess you must be mute, whoever you are. That's fine; I've heard enough talking today anyway. But you can come out." There was an undercurrent in her tone that led Erik to assume she didn't mean the words to be a request. Stubborn, cautious and still annoyed with her as much as with himself, he remained where he was. He saw her chest rise and fall in a deep sigh that blew several strands of her red hair from her eyes, catching fire in the candlelight.

"I've never been in a church as far as I can remember. Orthodox or Catholic." She looked around, making a face. "I don't know what seems stranger: the idea of talking to God or to a  _real_ person just sitting there behind a wall as if it's just a normal thing to do."

Now, he was the one to snort. "Indeed." Her eyes narrowed, shining as she peered intently in the statue's direction. He cursed beneath his breath as she rose to her feet in a cloud of blue damask and taffeta and strode across the room with quick, purposeful strides he might have attributed to a man. The girl lifted her head and all but stared  _down her nose_ at the statue, arms crossed over her midsection.

"Either your back or legs are going to cramp if you stay there, or worse. Something might go  _numb_." Her eyebrows rose as silence stretched on for several moments. Then she lowered herself with a delicate flick of her skirts, which pooled about her when she sat next to the statue upon the cold stone of the floor. 

"And the lady will freeze. It seems we both endure discomfort."

Looking up, Erik caught a flash of white teeth as she smiled in quiet amusement. "If you but wore a corset,  _monsieur_ , we might be on even ground." Was she  _mocking_ him? He couldn't read the look in her eyes in the darkness of the room, a problem he'd rarely encountered since ensconcing himself beneath the Garnier some years before. Avoiding humanity had initially been the aim. Somewhere he might still revel in the beauty and purity of music without the pointing and the staring of a jeering crowd. How things had changed since, and yet had not at all. For all that he had a pupil now, he taught her  _through a mirror_ and under the pall of deception. Antoinette vaguely tolerated him, but only the daroga had ever dared  _joke_ with him.

This young woman was a stranger. And a foreigner to boot, as her accent was as easily detectable as his  _Bretagne_ lilt. She sat next to a statue, after admitting in so many ways to not have much care for religion--and found humour rather than fear in it. Perhaps she truly  _was_ mocking him. No sane woman he'd ever observed or met would ever take such a meeting seriously. 

* * *

"Anya." She'd decided that the quiet had gone on long enough. Either her strange companion had left, or his back really had cramped and he was prone, stuck there. The mental image of a grown man stuck inside the wall in a such a way brought a ripple of amusement coursing through her, though it was swiftly replaced with concern. Just why would he choose to willingly hide behind a wall anyway? Everything had gone so spectacularly awry tonight that it was a relief to think of something--some _one_ else entirely. Her eyebrows drew together, and she sighed, arms hugging tighter about herself.

She'd never admit it: but he'd been right. She  _was_ freezing.

"What?" It was easier to resist the urge to make a dry or biting retort to that, as it was plainly obvious. He wasn't Dmitri. "My name. You have one too, I presume."

Allright, so keeping the sarcasm in check was a bit of a work in progress. She winced slightly, and unwound an arm from around herself in order to rest her palm against the chill stone of the angel's lyre.

"Ghosts have no need for names." The comment struck her as inherently ridiculous; if he  _were_ a ghost, he could easily float through the wall as if it were as incorporeal as he was. But a thought struck her, a recollection of two ballet students gossiping in the hall earlier of a certain opera ghost. Anya couldn't say rightly if he were man or spirit, but either way he kept himself hidden. This was the wrong place to spy on young girls, so she dismissed the automatic thought as soon as it came into her mind. Maybe he was devout, then? Maybe. If  _she_ were a ghost, she wouldn't be too eager to be in the presence of a god who wouldn't allow her into Heaven, to see whatever family she'd once had.

"Even ghosts had names at some point." Her voice was quieter now, the stone scraping her palm as it slid down along the statue until it came to rest upon the faint warmth provided by her skirts. A buffer from the chill, however small.

She heard a sharp intake of breath and shook her head. "I mean no harm,  _monsieur le fantôme_. I had a terrible evening, and this conversation has been a great distraction. Thank you."

There was no reply, so she pursed her lips together and stood gracefully, and left the chapel. Behind the angel's statue, the Phantom remained for some time. When was the last time someone had thanked him for anything? 

He couldn't recall.

 


	2. the garish light of day

The realization that she was alone in a strange country with nowhere to go had struck her not long after she left the chapel. It had been crushing at first, as though all the many tonnes of stone and marble and bronze which comprised this place had pressed down upon her. She had nothing to her name--in fact, she had no name at all, as far as surnames went. A nurse had bequeathed her what she now called herself a decade earlier. Whoever she had once dead was as figuratively dead and buried as were the people Dmitri and Vlad had said were related to her literally were. The dream; Paris, finding that long-lost part of herself there alive and well--of finding what remained of her family was broken. Gone. And what for? Ten million rubles for the safe return of that girl she must lay to rest.

It hadn't mattered to a young officer she'd once known in Leningrad if she was nobody or not. Though, now being  _some_ body could prove a danger. She swallowed against a deep howling grief yawning in the pit of her heart, its tendrils of darkness slithering up her throat.  _Damnit_.

Well. It was true that circumstances being what they were, she could not seek shelter with Vlad and Dmitri, nor with the dowager. There was no one left. Nowhere she might belong. For better or worse, this opera house would be the roof over her head tonight. Tomorrow might be a different story, but as she raised a shaking hand to wipe a tear which had tracked a salty path along her right cheek, Anya found herself much too drained to even begin to contemplate anytime other than the present. There were immediate needs to tend to: namely locating the kitchens to help herself to dinner and an out-of-the-way corner of this building where she might find a restful sleep uninterrupted by the theatre's early risers.

Her nose eventually led her to the former, and she padded there in stockinged feet with her impractical, elegant shoes dangling from her left hand. Silent as a ghost. As it turned out, the cooks kept a low-burning fire stoked in the hearth tonight, which allowed her to see well-enough to locate a cask of wine, some bread and hard cheese. Nothing fancy. Wandering about a building so large after dark was a daunting task for her; the statues seemed alive, their marble-hewn gazes following her eerily. She'd experienced a similar sensation once: back in the old Winter Palace before she'd encountered Vlad and Dmitri. As though the courtiers and nobility depicted in the massive portraits flanking the room had come alive.

Just as she had then, she hummed a low tune beneath her breath. "On the wind, across the sea. Hear this song and remember..." She had no idea when she might have ever composed or heard the words. Flashes of memories were starting to return to her. Perhaps it was one more facet of her forgotten childhood come back to haunt--or guide her. "--soon you'll be home with me, once upon a December." Where or whenever she'd learned them, the words brought a sense of comfort to her that she'd been lacking for the past few days. Though the opera house was silent as a tomb, she was no longer afraid. For some time she wandered, through what must be the dormitories belonging to the ballet girls and down one floor, then two. Where could she sleep that no one would find her come dawn?

"This way." A familiar rich tenor voice seemed to echo all around her, and she found herself smiling a little. So, her errant ghost had returned. Anya followed the voice down another flight of stairs, through several cavernous hallways until she came to what must surely be the backmost corner of the costume department. Old props, threadbare and covered with thick layers of dust lay scattered about. It suited her just fine. She blinked when a sconce of candles suddenly lit up before her, casting a soft glow across the peeling green walls of the room. "No one will find you here."

Casting her blue gaze about, she inclined her head. The Winter palace could keep its ghostly portraits. It was a much more comforting feeling to know someone was watching over her. She might know nothing of him, and yet. There was an instinctual knowledge in her that knew he hadn't lied to her. He was the first person she'd encountered since leaving the orphanage who had not. To her: that meant the world.

"It seems I am in your debt, monsieur. Thank you, again." Pausing, she set her things down and then added: "You get some sleep, too. I Imagine it'd be hard to come up with ways to haunt this place if your eyes are drooping."

A slow chuckle echoed across the room. "Bonsoir, mademoiselle." Anya turned and set to seeing to her need for sustenance and rest in that order.

* * *

Erik did not, in fact honour his word to her. There were a number of things he'd set out to do that evening: chiefmost of which to check on Christine. Bless her soul, the girl slept like a stone beneath the watchful gaze of Antoinette. For some time he observed the women through the mirror. The gaslamp seemed to burn for hours, until finally the elder of the women in the room nodded off, soft snores filling the room. That was when he took his chance to enter the room through the sliding mirror. He draped a nearby afghan over the slumped form of Madame Giry and tenderly tucked the coverlet beneath Christine's chin. His fingers brushed ever so lightly along her jawline before jerking away as if her flesh had burned them.

Ordinarily he would not be surprised to find that were the case. He had an aversion to inflicting his touch upon others usually.  _Usually_. Tonight, though, it was a haunting wail. Had he not heard the very same voice sing not but a few hours earlier, even  _he_ might have wondered for a moment or two if this place was actually haunted. He cursed beneath his breath, head lifting to find Antoinette staring at him intently enough to make him startle, jumping to an upright position immediately. When had her snoring stopped? 

"It's not proper for you to be here at this hour, monsieur." Even thick with sleep, her voice held a note of command. He stiffened, wishing that his mask covered the entirety of his face; and not simply the monstrous half. His fingers twitched at his side, and her gaze lowered to catch the motion. At once her features softened, and she sighed. "But thank you for looking in on us. Go get some rest yourself if you can. One of the girls must be having a nightmare." 

His gaze fell on Christine, and then he nodded. "You, too, madame." Then he turned and retreated into the dark. He moved like a wraith, swift and silent through passageways no other living soul knew about. Not even Antoinette or the daroga. Their access Below was through a tunnel he had kept clear of the deadlier traps he had rigged throughout the rest of the abyss he called home and the serpentine catacombs extending out from its heart. His friend had been right in one instance: a girl  _was_ having a nightmare. She was simply not one of the ballet rats. Erik emerged through a sliding wall of stone into the costume workshop to find Anya nearly twisted up in the pile of old tunics and dresses she'd turned into a makeshift coverlet.

He couldn't see her face, but she was whimpering in fear. Her distress was as unacceptable somehow as Christine's illness was. Without a thought in mind, he acted, kneeling at her side. One after the other he extricated the costumes from her until they were in a haphazard pile next to them. It didn't matter. The girl was in his arms,  _clinging to him_ as if he were a lifeline. This time he could be most certain that he had not in fact initiated contact. She had sought out what little warmth he had to offer and seemed to burrow into his waistcoat and jacket, shivering violently. Again his fingers twitched.  _What was he meant to do?_

Just then, her eyes opened, wide and dark with fear. Her chest rose and fell swiftly, and he could feel the racing tattoo of her heartbeat where she pressed against him. He had assumed the sight of the mask gleaming pale and eerie in the dark would frighten her, but no. "It's you." Her French was more stilted now in her fatigue and distress. Erik nodded his head once, and watched as her eyes closed and her chest heaved as she released a great sigh through her nose. 

He had never been this close to a woman before. The clean scent of fresh air and a delicate, sweet scent rose to fill his senses, and his fingers twitched just once more. Anya's eyes opened, narrow blue slits as she turned her face up to get her first look at him. He knew what she saw: immaculate evening wear, impeccable posture--and a face half-covered by a mask which in this darkness must seem to glow unnaturally. It certainly seemed that way to  _him_ when he took it off before he went to bed each night, anyway. But she still didn't recoil. He had been waiting for an eventuality that failed to occur as the moments ticked on by. Eventually, he was struck dumb by the white flash of her teeth and the unmistakable sparkle of warmth in her eyes.

"I ought to just record myself saying 'thank you', so you can play it ad infinitum because every time I turn around, it seems you're right there to help me."

That wit would make him laugh, had he not just witnessed her pale and shivering in fear. Unknowingly, he tightened his grasp on her and exhaled deeply. To think that before her, no one had thanked him for anything. The silence stretched on, and he gazed down upon her intently. Probably more intently than was proper and certainly more than a lady like her might like. It was a loss indeed when she eventually extricated herself from him and ran her fingers absently through her hair. 

* * *

Regaining her composure was proving to be somewhat difficult when he was looking at her as if he could see right through to the heart of her. Of course she knew he could not. As perceptive as he might be, he seemed awkward and shy. Since she'd woken up to find him there, he hadn't stopped fidgeting with his hands. As if he had no concept as to what to do with them. Hold her, push her away, clasp them together in his lap, even--Anya could guess that he'd been isolated from society for some time. A pang struck deep in her chest, and she shifted forward, tentatively reaching for one of his hands.

"You're not frightened anymore." He spoke so quietly that she had to tilt her head forward to listen. Her touch came so suddenly that he flinched. Anya gazed down at their hands for a moment, then extricated her hands from his as gently as she had taken it to begin with. 

"Not really, no." And she had been thus for a long time. "I can't remember much, so I think these are flashes coming back at night in pieces. Part of me wishes they wouldn't, considering."

 "Ah. Amnesia." The tension eased in the visible side of his face, the lines of his jaw and around his mouth softening. Empathy was clear as day, whether he was wearing a mask or not--and she was grateful. Both for the sentiment and the fact that he didn't prod her about details she wasn't willing to share with anyone. After being fooled so thoroughly by a pair of conmen, she was hesitant to trust.  _But he makes me feel safe anyway_. It made no sense. A nameless man made her feel more relaxed and protected than--well, no. She didn't want to consider that now. The very notion of a stranger having such an effect upon her frightened her.

Brushing a strand of hair off her shoulder, she twisted its end loosely about her index finger. "Mm. You're good at chasing away the demons."

Something about that seemed to snap him to awareness. He bolted upright and turned away from her, staring down at his hands. His body language appeared so  _helpless_ that she felt a lump rising in her throat. At length, he replied with a darkly whispered: "Don't be fooled, mademoiselle. Many have said that I  _am_ a demon." Shock and anger struck through to the core of her like twin thunderbolts. For his appearance, surely. That mask wasn't a showpiece--that much she knew. And thus it was all too easy to imagine the manner of cruelty the world might have inflicted upon him for something he could not help. Anya swallowed and stood, taking several steps toward him until she'd closed half the space between them.

"I've  _been_ fooled already. By two men who look completely ordinary by anyone's standards. Look at me, please." He shook his head, and her brows drew together in a scowl. "So far as I know, you didn't try to swindle an old woman who's lost everything out of ten million rubles. You've helped me. That doesn't sound like a demon to me."

His shoulders shook. She softened the look on her face, and reached out a hand to tentatively rest suspended in midair near to his shoulder. "You're the princess I heard some patrons speak of earlier, aren't you?" The attempt at deflection was blatant, no subtlety to it at all. She moved forward, rounding him so she could look directly into his green eyes. He appeared shaken. A soft sigh was exhaled into the air, stale and musty in here, and this time it was she who shook her head decisively.

"Maybe. Even if I  _am_ , you're not going to convince me to treat you the way others obviously have."

Glancing down at her, he finally reached for her, grasping her hand firmly. "Come with me, then. I can't stay above much longer." Anya flexed her fingers to lace with his, returning the firm grasp in kind.

"All right."

Then he led her through the sliding wall and into the dark.


End file.
